"And though I oft have passed them by, A day will come at last when I Shall take the hidden paths that run West of the moon, East of the sun" (Tolkien)
The harvest moon has been hanging around in the morning, posing just above the forest clearings in the pre-dawn sky. With this in mind, I decided to get up very early and walk with my camera. The entrance to Rathtrevor is dark, surrounded by the thick tall imposing trees that make it so inviting, although a bit eerie at this hour in September. Everything in me was calling out for more sleep. It was dark, chilly, EARLY, but Michael was arriving in the afternoon, and there were errands to run, healthy food to buy, ice cream cartons to dispose of and empty pizza boxes to hide.
So I made my way into the park and through the shadows on the narrow path out to the ocean. The deep silence of the woods had me listening intently to the lack of bird calls, the softness of a barely rippling rising tide, and the quiet of a windless morning. All of the show was in the sky to the East, with its ever-changing palette of sunrise glory. The only other presence was a sea lion playing about 20 yards away, occasionally blowing before he dove under the calm waters for food.
When I was finally in a position to take a photograph of a fuzzy moon, veiled by incoming clouds and framed by two magnificent red cedars, the battery in my camera died. So I walked on, in ecstasy at the scene unfolding over the water. Finally, a bright red sun scattered the dark clouds and laid a path to my feet as a flock of Canada Geese flew low above the sea, with their gently beating wings. I was walking on air.
On my return to the car, I spied the tiny pine tree that I had been meaning to visit all summer. There were shiny objects dangling from her branches but the tree was barely visible at the edge of the water, and on the other side of a split-rail fence placed to protect the fragile vegetation alongside the trail. The deer had trod a path through the now high fall-yellow grass, a path previously hidden from view. I suddenly decided that this was the morning I'd follow it.
As I approached the tree, I saw small laminated pictures hanging, dangling in the wind, catching the light of the rising sun. The emerald green needles of the tree were soft to the touch, and after turning two or three of the pictures around, it was clear they were all of children, some toddlers, some young adults, all with Christmas stickers on them - and dates. Then I noticed the long typed card toward the back of the tree, read the first line, and felt chills of connection, awe, reverence, and mystery. I thought immediately of my elderly gentleman friend from Sunday, and the saga I had just written that had brought pain and reflections from many of you, each with your own story of children lost to mental illness, estrangement or death. "In Memory of Missing Children," it said.
I read the whole card, touched each of the pictures with the innocent and smiling faces. Some hadn't been sealed properly, and these ghostly images of indiscernible features looked out past happy snowman stickers. The tree itself, barely taller than the grasses that now surrounded her, sat on a small rise facing the beauty of the ocean, and the wrath and fury of the seasonal storms.
The memorial card went on: "Early in every morn' when the sun lights the rooms of this house, you are here. Here inside pictures on the wall - here in the silence of memories. Your movements are felt inside of us, and we reach out to find you against grey walls, sensing your smile all around us when thinking your name...You are lost to us, but not far from the single quiet whisper of hope, nor from the eyes of the angels and hearts of those who will come to the silent waves, in wait of light's flicker, watching from the shore. You are not alone."
"Missing;" "Died;" "Lost:" all of the words are just an emotional thesaurus for 'grief.'
As I turned to walk away, I cried. So much pain in the midst of such beauty. Shortly before, I had been marveling at the exquisite lacing of light over Mistaken Island at sunrise, and now, I was in tears at the exquisitely piercing pain in the world, and the strangely gentle sense that had guided me to this tree on this morning.
When Sister Macrina Wiederkehr said that "Every tree is full of angels," she was surely talking about this one, representing the joys of birth and childhood, and the pains of loss. The synchronicity of finding this tree at this time, by following this hidden path 'West of the moon, East of the sun,' experiencing the elation of the morning with this indelible sorrow - all of it becomes the dance of the mystery of life. The world had once again given its gift of unspeakable beauty, accompanied by incomprehensible pain. They are both part of our experience. I thought of the words Brett and Stephanie chose in their vows of committed love to each other, "through the best and the worst of what is to come," and the sincerity and generosity of the love that makes such a promise. It's one, that we could make each morning to life itself, as we follow our own hidden paths.
After a long three weeks apart, Michael arrived back home safely this evening. We enjoyed a lovely dinner at our favorite restaurant, The Final Approach at the airport, where the chef has a Louisiana heritage and a mean pecan pie. When we got back home, we walked slowly out to the water, with the sense now of the unseen presences of those who "come to the silent waves, in wait of light's flicker, watching from the shore." The tide had returned, the shorebirds were busily and noisily having their own meal, and the day ended as it had begun - in beauty and unspeakable peace.
YAY GOD
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